Ratiocination The Logic Behind a Perfect Coffee
by donutsweeper
Summary: Sherlock is a barista and known for speaking to his customers bluntly and judging them by their orders, something John finds fascinating.  AU
1. John

It was Mike Stamford who first brought John to the café. "You've been wandering around like a zombie all week. The caffeine will do you some good. Besides," John wasn't sure, but there did seem to be a bit of an unholy gleam to Mike's eyes as he added, "You look like you could do with a laugh."

"A laugh?" John asked, confused.

"You'll see," was all Mike would say in response, but, since Mike had offered to pay and John wasn't one to turn down free coffee, John soon found himself outside a trendy looking coffee shop called '_Rationcination _staring at the line of customers in front of them a little warily.

"Wouldn't think this many people would queue up for coffee this time of day. Must be amazing stuff or something, yeah?"

Mike just laughed. "You'll see."

As they moved slowly up to the register John began looking around for a menu, but didn't spot one. He was about to ask Mike about it when an argument between the barista and a customer distracted him.

"I will serve you no such thing, that order is utterly nonsensical!" the barista yelled.

The customer, an older woman wearing far too much makeup and terribly uncomfortable looking tight clothes, slammed her purse against the counter. "There is nothing wrong with my order!"

"If you fail to see the problem with it then you must be stupider than I first imagined. Congratulations! I'm actually impressed that someone with your mental acuity is capable of dressing, albeit poorly, all by themselves and attempting to blend in with the rest of London's dreary excuse for a population."

John raised his eyebrow at that and turned to Mike who whispered, "That's Sherlock. Yeah, he's always like that," in his ear.

The woman fluttered her hands, clutching her chest like Sherlock had wounded her somehow. "Well, I never-"

"No, obviously you haven't," Sherlock interrupted, "Or else you would know that a _'cappuccino, hold the milk'_ is impossible, considered that, by definition, a cappuccino is a carefully prepared combination of espresso, steamed milk and the correct amount of foam. Here." Sherlock plunked a cup down in front of the woman. "The dark roast of the day with a sprinkle of cinnamon."

She opened her mouth to protest but Sherlock cut her off with a shake of his head. "Just take it and go. And try to use that tiny brain of yours for something other than the gossip columns every once in a while. Next!"

The next order turned out to be two caffè lattes, then a macchiato (which Sherlock _tsked _at but made no further comment), then an iced chocolate followed by an abortive attempt of an order of decaf. John couldn't help but snicker at Sherlock's "not in my café! Unadulterated piss has more flavor!" before sending the customer out the door empty handed.

"Somehow I have a feeling he isn't kidding, he probably knows what unadulterated piss tastes like," Mike whispered to John, a big grin on his face.

"Do you think he's experimented then? After all, unadulterated implies..."

"No," Mike held up his hand, "Just stop right there."

"Well, it does."

"No. There are certain places my brain is happier not going to."

"But-"

"No. Be nice to me, I'm buying you a coffee, remember?"

John laughed, but nodded and held his tongue.

The next customer in the queue didn't even place an order, he merely handed his credit card over and stood there quietly as Sherlock gave him a long look before spinning around and going to work. "A flat white with an extra shot," Sherlock said as he held out the drink. "And you may want to take a cab instead of the tube tonight. Just a thought."

"How does he," John started to ask Mike before realizing the woman in front of them had just received her drink, the light roast of the day, and now Sherlock was right ithere/i, staring at them, waiting for their order.

"Simply put," Sherlock explained, "I am amazingly good at what I do. I may not present you with the drink that you would have ordered, thinking you wanted it, but rather with the drink that you need. Mike, still on that diet I see, not that it's doing much good, your typical skinny mocha with whipped cream then I assume?"

"Erm, yeah, thanks. That'll be great. This here's an old mate of mine, John Watson. Never been in here before."

"And you thought you'd subject him to my notable charms, how kind of you." Sherlock's tone of voice made it quite clear that he was being facetious, although not unkind. "Well, John Watson, would you like to place an order or would you rather take a chance and see what drink I have in store for you?"

John looked at Mike who gave him a _'go on then'_ motion and then turned back to Sherlock. "Surprise me."

Sherlock slapped the bar, a grin on his face. "A risk taker, excellent." His eyes narrowed as he stared at John for a few moments. "Oh! Of course!" he shouted before grabbing a cup. "Don't worry. You'll love it. I guarantee it." He turned, his back blocking what he was doing, preventing John from seeing what he was preparing. "Well, not so much guarantee then simply be quite sure about it. Mostly sure, anyway. You'll like it. At least I think so." With a flourish he spun back around, handing Mike his mocha with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream precariously perched on top and then handed John a cup. "Take a sip. Tell me what you think."

John took the proffered cup a little warily, not knowing what to expect. It was smooth and strong with a velvety finish that seemed to explode in his mouth. "I. Wow. Yes, this is exactly what I needed. What is it?"

"A long black." Sherlock's grin lit up his face making him look for all the world like a kid in a candy store. "Similar to an Americano, but with the espresso added to the water rather than the other way around. I knew you were the type that was capable of appreciating the difference."

"Yeah, it's grand. Thanks."

Mike cleared his throat loudly at that.

"Right, thanks for the coffee, Mike. You were right. This place is just what I needed."

Before Mike could respond the customer behind them elbowed his way up to the counter. "Excuse me, I'd like to get out of here sometime today."

Sherlock's lips quirked at that and he made the exaggerated motion of lifting his wrist to look at his watch. "Since it is only 1:53 in the afternoon, it is very likely that it would still be today when you left this establishment, even if you had not chosen to rudely interrupt the transaction I am currently in the middle of."

John shifted to the side a little, to be a bit further out of the way of the flow of traffic. "No, Sherlock, it's okay, we're done here, I suppose. You go ahead and help this gentleman," he said, taking another sip.

The man's gaze raked over Mike and John and he sniffed derisively before addressing Sherlock. "I require a coffee. And not one of _those_," he gestured to the drink in Mike's hand, giving the whipped cream that was dripping down the side a haughty look, "sort of drinks. A simple, normal coffee, if you please."

Sherlock cleared his throat, his expression icy. "I somehow think my definition of normal deviates _vastly _from yours. Would you care to be more specific?"

As John turned to follow Mike out the door he snickered, not only at the disdainful tone Sherlock was using, but also at the way the man blustered in response and puffed out his chest. "Coffee. Basic, black coffee. Or is this café too pretentious to serve something like that?"

"I'm serving you, aren't I?"

The customer's reply was lost when the door swung shut behind them. _Ratiocination _was an interesting café, and Sherlock truly an... unusual proprietor. There was something compelling about the place, and the man who ran it, and when combining that with John's nearly continual need to caffeinate he expected there would be many visits here in his future. Many visits indeed.


	2. Lestrade

** Veridicality, or The Truth Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

Needing a quiet place to think and a bit of caffeine, Lestrade ducked into _Ratiocination_ fifteen minutes before its closing time, expecting to have the place to himself. He was mistaken on both counts.

"Nescafé? _Nescafe?_" Sherlock was shouting, berating some poor sod. "Have you seriously stepped into my establishment and ordered what is laughably referred to as instant coffee yet again?"

The customer in question was an elderly gentleman, perhaps somewhere between seventy and eighty if Lestrade had to guess, and wearing threadbare trousers, a rather overly large mackintosh and had a pair of spectacles perched on his head. With a loud sigh, Lestrade walked over and prepared himself to intercede on the man's behalf. "Sherlock," he began, only to have his interruption waved away by Sherlock.

"As I have told you before, Mr. Higginbottom, brown, granular gravy-water is not, and never should be, considered coffee." He looked at Lestrade briefly before continuing, his tone oddly kind, "However, I do concede that perhaps some people enjoy a more bitter and watery brew so I shall endeavour to prepare such a drink for you."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, surprised at the response; it was one that could practically be considered polite, which was not something he had expected from his previous association with Sherlock. Slightly alarmed, but no longer worried this Mr. Higginbottom would get upset and drop dead of a heart attack in front of him, Lestrade stuck his hands in his pockets and waited quietly for Sherlock to finish whatever it was he was preparing and waited his turn.

"Here you go," Sherlock said a few moments later, handing over a large cup. "Your usual. Good night, Mr. Higginbottom."

"Thank you, Wilfred." Mr. Higginbottom's hands shook ever so slightly as he took a long sip. "Such a nice boy," he murmured as he turned and headed out of the café.

"That was," Lestrade paused, trying to find the right word, "nice," he decided on, managing to say it without any sarcasm or reproach. It was probably the first compliment he'd given Sherlock that wasn't coffee related.

"Mr. Higginbottom is a regular. I labour under the false hope that one day I can alter his opinion as to what is a proper coffee. Until then," Sherlock shrugged. "I shall continue to serve him an approximation of what he needs and therefore desires, a caffè lungo."

"What's a caffè lungo?" Lestrade had never heard of it before.

"A caffè lungo, lungo being Italian for long, of course, " Sherlock began to explain as he turned around and busied himself making Lestrade's drink. "Is prepared by using double the amount of water to make an espresso. The pull is usually a full minute that extra length of time is how the drink acquired its name but by having the additional hot water pass through the ground coffee it extracts components that would normally remain undissolved and the resulting drink is less strong and more bitter."

Deciding that was much more information than he had a hope of processing this late at night, Lestrade chose to ignore it all and instead, since Sherlock was already preparing a drink for him, ask, "So, Sherlock, what do I need tonight?"

"What you need is to catch the pickpocketing priest that has been working near Melcombe Street these past three months."

"Pickpocketing what? Yeah, I'll give you that there have been a slightly higher number of purse-snatchings and reported incidents of pickpocketing in that area than average lately, but a priest? Where did you get such an idea?"

"Quite simply, I _pay attention_. I read the newspapers. I listen to the gossip people bring into my shop. Really, Lestrade, how you expect to ever move up from Detective Sergeant to Detective Inspector is beyond me; you see but you do not _observe_."

"Well, it's a good thing I've you for that then, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"It is indeed," Sherlock responded, turning to face Lestrade and holding out a large cup. "Hazelnut mocha. And don't give me that look-"

"What look?"

"_That_ look. It's the most sensible drink for you, given your current situation. You've been up since four this morning and only had a packet of crisps since working that mugging at the Baker Street tube station early this afternoon. Considering you need to leave within the next," he checked his watch, "six minutes to catch the pickpocketing priest in the act, there is no time for me to make you a panini or something similar of its ilk, but you are in need of the calories and caffeine a hazelnut mocha will provide."

"Six minutes?"

Sherlock nodded. "If he follows his pattern, yes."

"Making an arrest like that would be the feather in my cap." Lestrade slugged down a large gulp of the mocha, grimacing at the taste and hurried to the door. "Thanks, Sherlock," he called over his shoulder as he took off running in the direction of Melcombe Street, "for the drink and for the information!"

"Yes, it would indeed," Sherlock said to himself as he started to clean the counter. "And exactly what you needed, just like I knew it would be."


	3. John again

**Conviviality, or The Friendship Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

It had been raining all day, John had forgotten his umbrella, and as a result, he was relieved when he finally reached his destination , his favourite coffee shop, _Ratiocination_.. He'd barely gotten in the door when he heard Sherlock's raised voice. The man was yelling at a customer. Again. Overall, not a terribly surprising occurrence, but considering the volume of the argument, it was a little hard to ignore.

"There is no milk in your espresso, you dim-witted dolt! If you wished your espresso to be adulterated by a milk-based product then you should have requested a drink that _contained_ some sort of dairy substance. There are dozens of beverages that would fulfil such a desire and yet you ordered the lone potable that, _by its nature_, would not have any additive, milk or otherwise!"

The customer suffering Sherlock's current ire was a haughty, sombre looking bloke who was seemingly unfazed by the ongoing diatribe. He merely stood there and let Sherlock's words wash over him and it was only once the lecture wound down that he spoke. "Am I to understand from your boorish retort that you will not be preparing my order as I requested?"

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration. "No, I will _not_ be preparing your ridiculously asinine order! Out! Get out! And if you ever come in here again, I shall make the constabulary aware of your unethical practices during the last fiscal year!"

The reaction was instantaneous; the colour drained from the customer's face so quickly that John actually worried the man might faint. However, before he could approach him, the man spun around, wide-eyed, and fled the coffee shop.

"Ah, John. I'm pleased to see you braved the elements to make your way here, despite your recent bout of illness."

"How'd you know?" John started to ask before amending himself, "Right. Of course. I haven't been in for a while and I probably still look a little wrecked. It wasn't that bad, just a touch of a cold."

"More likely a case of the flu, you've lost at least a stone."

"Fine," John sighed heavily, "the flu. But it wasn't that bad. And besides, I'm here now, yeah?"

"That you are," Sherlock said with a smile. "Let me get you a cup of tea."

"Actually, I've had so much tea lately, I'm rather sick of it. I don't suppose I could get a coffee?"

"In a coffee shop? What an unusual request, but one I believe I can manage," Sherlock said, smirking slightly before busying himself behind the counter. "Now why don't you tell me what is in that bag you are currently mangling?"

"Oh. This." John cleared his throat, suddenly sheepish. "Yeah. I saw it and it seemed perfect. I mean, I know it's a bit ridiculous, you owning a coffee shop and all, but I thought... Anyway, here." He shoved the bag at Sherlock.

"Thank you, John. I appreciate the sentiment, no matter how appropriate or inappropriate the gift may be. Would you open it for me whilst I finish your drink?"

John dug into the bag and pulled out a coffee mug. "I was looking around online and I noticed it was going to be International Coffee Day today and I'd seen this earlier and I thought of you. It's got the caffeine molecule on it, see?"

Sherlock stared at the present for a moment in silence, an expression on his face John couldn't read. Then, reaching out, he took the mug out of John's hands and replaced it with the beverage he'd made for John. "A latte. It's... perfect for... for this sort of day. And. Well..." Sherlock trailed off as he examined the mug in greater detail.

Not terribly surprised that Sherlock, never one for expressing emotions, hadn't said thank you, John looked down at his drink and smiled; Sherlock had etched an elaborate drawing of the two of them into the latte's foam. Appreciation and gratitude could be expressed in many forms, it only made sense that Sherlock would pick his own way to do so.

Conviviality, or The Friendship Behind the Perfect Coffee-


	4. John and Mycroft

**Quintessence, or The Substance Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

With all the chaos going on in his life, John hadn't made it to _Ratiocination_ for nearly a month but, determined not to let another month go by before seeing Sherlock again, he managed to make his way over there late one evening and was looking forward to a nice coffee and a few moments of peace and quiet.

Which, apparently, was not going to be found, because he pushed open the door to discover a customer arguing loudly with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I demand you prepare my drink the way I requested it. You are the barista, I am the customer, ergo it is the requirement of your position for you to _serve_ me."

John was a little amazed by the use of 'ergo' let alone the fact the man was demanding anything in the first place (since if he was familiar enough with Sherlock to know his name than how could he not know how Sherlock reacted to demands) and studied him while Sherlock futzed about with his back to them both, wiping off an already pristine countertop instead of making whatever drink the man had requested. This customer was a bit different than the ones John usually saw here: tailored suit worth more than John's entire wardrobe, cultured and posh in the way most only dream of being, and, incredibly, completely unbowed by Sherlock's brusque attitude.

"I am waiting, Sherlock. Patiently." The man tapped his umbrella twice on the floor before flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his trousers. "And I will wait all night, if necessary."

"You have never been patient a day in entire your life, Mycroft!" Sherlock spun around, cleaning rag still clutched in his hand and shaken back and forth to emphasize each word before being dropped, almost sheepishly when Sherlock noticed John. "Oh, John. Hello."

"You're obviously, um, in the middle of something. I can come back," John said, reaching behind him for the door.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, before continuing in a normal tone. "The _gentleman_ was just leaving since he is well aware that decaffeinated coffee, which I do not serve and never would even consider serving, still contains a measurable quantity of caffeine, a substance which people who suffer from high blood pressure are discouraged from ingesting even trace amounts. You, John, however, are in obvious need of a flat white and have no malady preventing your consumption of such a beverage. Just give me a moment to prepare it."

The other customer turned and studied John carefully. "So this is your John. Youngest of two, parents deceased. Medical student. Rugby player. And you recently injured your knee in a game, I see. Unsurprising, considering your stature. I fail to see your what has piqued your interest, Sherlock, but then that is often the case."

"Oh, sod off, Mycroft."

"Language, Sherlock." Mycroft gave John a terribly proper yet incredibly disturbing smile before leaning closer and saying, "Do forgive my brother, despite his upbringing he is somehow lacking all social graces. Until next time, Mr Watson." Then, with a final nod, he swept from the room before John could even hope to come up with any sort of response.

John stepped up to the counter and gestured over his shoulder. "_He's_ your brother?"

"I'm afraid so. A _truly_ unfortunate genetic occurrence, you understand."

"Yes." John cleared his throat. "Well."

"It was inordinately polite of you not to correct him on how you obtained your injury." Sherlock raised slightly his voice so he could be heard over the espresso machine. "Mycroft is always one to snap to conclusions. You are a rugby player, you are recovering from a sports injury so therefore you were injured playing rugby. A ridiculously short sighted interpretation of the facts presented to him, only a fool would make that sort of error."

"How did you," John started to ask before shaking his head. "You know never mind. You're right, I didn't hurt myself playing rugby. Never should have tried to make a go at American Football, what a rubbish game that is."

"Is it now, how so?" Sherlock asked, gesturing for John to sit before he brought over John's drink. "Explain it to me as I prepare the café for closing."

"Oh, it's just so ridiculous." John paused to take a long sip. "Oh, ta for this, really hits the spot. So, as I was saying," he began, relishing the chance for a good rant; coming to _Ratiocination_ tonight had certainly been just what he needed. "There are so many rules the game is stopped nearly every other minute."


	5. John yet again

**Legerdemain, or The Artful Trickery Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

With a little trepidation John headed to his favourite coffee shop for his first time in several months. It wasn't that he didn't wish to visit_ Ratiocination _nor that he was not in dire need of a coffee, but rather that he could barely afford to do so. There had been so many extraneous expenses that had cropped up of late that he'd already put more on his card than he should have and then there was Harry and his da and _their _needs... In truth, John barely had been barely able to scrape together the coins for the cheapest of Sherlock's coffees, and that was including the quid he'd found on the pavement on his way to class.

Not that John was ashamed of his lack of finances, there was nothing wrong with having to tighten the proverbial belt or trying to live within one's means, but he didn't want to advertise it either. Since Sherlock's policy was that the barista decided what drink the customer needed and prepared it sans input so there was the chance (if not the certainty) that he actually wouldn't be able to afford what Sherlock wound up making for him.

The coffee shop was busy as ever when he arrived but there were still some empty tables, John was happy to note. He'd brought a few textbooks along and was hoping to get in a little studying in while he nursed his drink. There was also the possibility he'd get a chance to chat a little with Sherlock here and there during the lulls as well? It was unlikely, considering the time of day, but he still hoped it might happen; they hadn't talked in far too long.

The line moved quickly; Sherlock presented a mocha to a harried looking office worker, offered a pair of cappuccinos with a sprinkle of cinnamon to a policewoman, and a long black to a tired looking young man. Each transaction took place with minimal fuss much to John's surprise. It was too good to last, of course, and it didn't. The customer in front of John presented Sherlock with a small carton before even saying a word.

"And what am I suppose to do with this, may I ask?" Sherlock held the carton between his thumb and index finger with his arm outstretched, as if he was keeping the offending item as far away from himself as possible.

"It's for my latte," sneered the woman.

"You are ordering a latte and supplying your own milk?"

Oh dear, John thought to himself, this was not going to end well.

"Obviously."

"Are you suggesting that there is something _wrong _with the milk in my establishment?" Sherlock's tone was icy, disdainful. John recognized that tone and he couldn't help but rub his forehead upon hearing it. So much for the nice, calm, quiet place to study and so much for Sherlock being an accommodating mood. John sighed.

"I cannot comment on the matter, however I can admit is unlikely it would meet my exacting standards, which are very, very high. I am _very_particular," was the haughty reply.

"Well, yes, that much is obvious from your manner of dress. Harrods? Really? Even your lingerie? And as for your footwear, well, Lanvins?" Sherlock sniffed derisively. "And a new pair at that, worn only twice before. You obviously have more money than common sense, considering you are wearing open-toed shoes despite the nearly one hundred percent chance of rain later today. New money though, you're to be congratulated for marrying so far above your station. But that does not enable you to act the part, does it? I shall give you a little piece of advice, those born with money rarely feel the need to display it so ostentatiously." John watched as the woman became an odd combination of both deathly pale and terribly red.

"Well!" she cried out, fluttering her hands. "I have never-"

"I highly doubt that, considering the number of years that you worked in what polite society calls the 'service industry'. Here," Sherlock shoved the carton of milk at the woman. "Now leave and do not return."

"How dare you? You have no right!" The woman was shrieking now, her voice grating John's nerves.

"A better question is how dare _you_, madam. Wearing pastels and sapphires together? This time of year? Not to mention those wedge sandals. Made of snakeskin, no less. Are you truly unaware of how much of a fashion faux pas that truly is? Now leave. This instant." Sherlock made a shooing motion. "Next!"

"Hullo, Sherlock." John stepped around the still sputtering woman and approached the counter.

"Ah, John. I was wondering as to the reason you had stopped frequenting my establishment, but now I understand why. Utter foolishness on your part, of course. Commendable, but foolish. Take a seat, I'll bring your tea out to you in a moment." Sherlock gestured to a free table before addressing the customer next in line. "Yes? Latte, extra shot, I assume?"

A little over three hours later John began packing up his things, preparing to head home. He'd stayed longer than he'd planned, first nursing his tea and then drinking the incorrectly prepared flat white Sherlock had offered him on the table ("Nothwithstanding the fact it was totally inappropriate for the particular customer I prepared it for; I don't know what I was thinking, John.") along with a panini which had been burned slightly and thus destined for the rubbish bin. It was only when he shoved his pen into his pocket and heard the jingle of coins there that he realized he hadn't actually paid for his order.

Even to John, it was obvious that Sherlock had never asked for payment on purpose. He must have ascertained John's financial difficulties somehow, probably from the fold of his shirt or fraying of his trousers or however it was that Sherlock figured out anything, and deliberately avoided putting John in the situation where he wouldn't be able to cover whatever the bill for the tea would have been. It was a nice gesture of Sherlock's, oddly kind of him in fact, and John knew that bringing notice to it would not be appreciated.

What probably would be appreciated, however, was John trying to come by_ Ratiocination _more often, which was something he would certainly try to do. Although next time, come hell or high water, he was going to make sure he paid for his drink. He needed to make sure his favourite coffee shop stayed in business after all, didn't he?


	6. John and Mrs Hudson

**Beneficence, or The Kindness Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

John wasn't entirely sure how he got to _Ratiocination_. It was a dreadfully dreary day, typical for the change of season, with the kind of damp that seeped into your bones. Exams were approaching and he was utterly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed for an hour or twenty. Despite the fact he'd left his last lecture with every intention of heading straight to the library to lose himself for a few hours in yet another massive study session his feet led him in the opposite direction and the next thing he knew he was standing in line with the comforting smells and familiar atmosphere of his favourite coffee shop washing over him.

Shockingly, there was someone else behind the counter with Sherlock. An older woman, matronly in action if not appearance, chatted with the customers while smiling at Sherlock, occasionally resting a friendly hand on his arm or shoulder as she puttered about, plating baked goods from the new display case.

As befuddled as he was, it was only then John noticed the case, brimming with pastries of various sorts. He was happy to see it, the shop must be doing well if Sherlock had been able to purchase something like that. The pastries themselves looked delicious, so delicious that even though John had no plans on buying one, he spent the time waiting in line pondering over which might be the tastiest.

"Large soy milk latte, extra shot, three pumps peppermint, one vanilla and one caramel, with a mocha drizzle." The customer in question was a haughty, well dressed business man, tapping away on his phone as he spoke, never once looking up or even acknowledging he'd arrived at the front of the line.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before simply saying, "No."

"Large soy milk latte, extra shot, three pumps peppermint, one vanilla and one caramel, with a mocha drizzle," the man repeated.

"And I said no. An order of such calibre is more appropriate for one of those run of the mill chain establishments whose customer base would not know a true hand crafted beverage if one jumped up and danced the tango in front of them. If you wish, you might try your luck at such a place instead of attempting to procure such a travesty here. Now shoo." Sherlock made a dismissive motion with his hand.

"Sherlock," the woman next to him chided, but even John could tell it was a half-hearted admonishment at best.

Sherlock shook his head at her, saying, "Not in my shop, Mrs Hudson. Not in my shop."

Sighing, she nodded and turned to the customer. "He's right, you best move on then," she said. "There's no reasoning with him when he gets like this."

"I will not!" The man blustered, his face reddening. "Not until I receive my drink. A large soy milk latte. Extra shot. Three pumps peppermint. One pump vanilla. One pump caramel. Mocha drizzle."

"I have no soy milk in my establishment. The mere name is a misnomer; milk is a liquid produced from the mammary glands of animals, not a substance made by the soaking and grinding of a specific legume. Beverage would be a better term for it, 'soy beverage' or perhaps merely 'soy drink', but whichever the term one decides is best, it is neither milk nor an item I stock so therefore if you wish someone to prepare your asinine concoction I suggest you move along!"

Now willing to accept defeat, the customer began ranting, talking over Sherlock and the woman assistant. John shuddered at the volume, each word was like a hammer against his brain and he shut his eyes, rubbing his forehead and willed the impending headache away.

"Oh, dear me, you're looking a bit peaked, aren't you?" A soft voice close to him said, startling him. It was Sherlock's new employee.

"I'm fine," John responded automatically.

"Malnourished, sleep deprived and under a considerable amount of stress, actually," Sherlock interjected, ignoring the still arguing customer. "And suffering from a rather dangerous drop in blood sugar. Bring him to the back room, Mrs Hudson, he needs to get off his feet."

"Sherlock, no." The protest didn't have a chance of succeeding, not with Sherlock, who ran roughshod over people with stronger willpowers than his every day, and apparently he'd have no luck against the kindly Mrs. Hudson either, who fixed him with a look that had his righteous indignation simply _melting_ under its gaze.

"Come on, now. Let's get you sitting down and then I'll bring you a scone and Sherlock will make you some tea and you'll be feeling more like yourself in no time."

"But," he began, a firm argument against such treatment set in his mind, but he petered off when he realised he was already in said backroom and being pressed into a comfortable arm chair without any clear sense of how he'd gotten there or why he had been so set on insisting against it in the first place.

A plate appeared in front of him. "Here you try this now, it'll perk you right up." John blinked stupidly at it for a moment before realising the proffered plate had a large, craggy monstrosity masquerading as a scone on it and reached out, cautiously taking it and setting on his lap. Mrs Hudson either failed to notice his confusion or was too polite to mention it and continued speaking, unabated. "My own recipe. Sherlock loves them, not that you can tell by looking at him. Thin as a rail, that one. Go on now, eat up. Sherlock will be along with your tea in just a moment." She shoved a napkin at him, John was slightly surprised she didn't tuck it in for him or something, before fluttering out of the room.

The pastry might have been odd looking, but it tasted amazing. John ate it slowly, savouring every bite.

"Good, isn't it?" Sherlock asked from the doorway.

"Oh, yes, you'll have to tell me how much it is," John insisted. "I've money. I can pay."

Sherlock exchanged the empty plate in John's hand for the mug of tea. "It's sweetened with honey. Not your usual manner of taking tea, I know, but better for your current state if the proponents of the glycemic index are to be believed. Try it, see what you think." Sherlock handed him the tea, waiting to release the mug until John had a firm grip on it.

It was strong and sweet, with just the right amount of milk. John was ashamed to admit that it took nearly a minute before he thought to thank Sherlock for the tea and scone, but his attempt to do so was brushed aside.

"Think nothing of it. After all, if all my customers were like that pompous arse before you in line, I'd have to close the shop or risk taking up the occasional murder in my spare time."

"Glad I could help then. Murder is not a recommended way of dealing with frustration- I believe the police frown on such actions."

"So they tell me. I need to head back out. Stay as long as you like though. I'll have Mrs Hudson bring you more tea in a little while, you're still a bit pale."

"Where did you find her?"

"Mrs Hudson? Such a treasure, that woman. She found herself at loose ends after her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. I was glad to help out."

"You... stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it. Then I casually mentioned I'd no arrangement for baked goods here in the shop knowing she'd insist on coming in and doing it herself. Lovely women, Mrs Hudson, and she refuses to capitulate to the vapid masses anymore than I do, so I find her not too terrible to work with."

"Not too terrible, that's quite the compliment coming from you."

Sherlock grinned in response and patted John lightly on the arm before leaving. He paused in the doorway, "I'm glad you stopped by _Ratiocination_ today, John."

"Thanks, Sherlock. So am I."


	7. John is confused

**Quotidianness, or The Ordinariness Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

John pushed open the door to _Ratiocination_ but froze when he'd walked only halfway inside. Turning, he checked the door, yes, this was Ratiocination and, even considering what he knew about science fiction, it was unlikely he'd crossed into some alternative universe where normal coffee shops had somehow come to be decorated in bright, happy colours and play terrible pop songs, but then he looked behind the counter and wondered if that was indeed the case.

Because... Sherlock was smiling.

At customers.

And not only that, but Sherlock was smiling at customers who were being rude to him.

John watched in amazement as the customer at the front of the line ordered her coffee while talking on her mobile without paying even the slightest bit of attention to Sherlock who, amazingly enough, still acknowledged her with a cheery "Right away, ma'am" and then began working on her drink.

The next customer asked for, _and received_, an extra-hot latte, a drink John was positive he'd seen Sherlock belittle anyone who ordered it at least five times before due to the fact that not only would the milk break down, scald and smell foul if he were to attempt to prepare the drink as asked, but he'd most likely burn himself as well. Yet, despite of that, Sherlock made the drink as requested and then sent the man off with a bright grin and a happy "come again!"

Something was seriously wrong.

John first assumed Sherlock was labouring under some sort of illness, but he didn't look sick; there wasn't any sheen of fever and his hair wasn't slicked back with sweat. His face showed no signs of flushing and his hands were as steady as always. Next he searched for signs of drug use, but no... as he approached the counter he saw that Sherlock's pupils were reactive and of normal size, there was no yellow tinge to his skin or bluing of the fingernails and no track marks to be found.

"How can I assist you today, sir?" Sherlock asked, his smile wide enough to show his molars.

John stared, he could feel his eyebrows raising dangerously high.

"Perhaps you would like to try a handcrafted special of the day? Our caffe macchiato has a quite nice velvety frothed milk topping." Sherlock's voice dropped low and he added, "Oh do stop starring at me like I'm addled, it makes you look not unlike a moping mudskipper. Today is a test; an experiment if you wish."

_Moping mudskipper_, John mouthed with a slight shake of his head as he replied, "A caffe macchiato sounds lovely, thank you."

"Coming right up, sir." He began to work on the drink and, keeping his voice low, explained, "My business model is unusual, even you have to agree with that, and I felt the need to test my standard daily income against that other styles. This week I am emulating a more itypical/i," he practically sneered as he said the word, "coffee shop, thus I have adopted the persona of a friendly, if slightly vapid barista."

"Right. Of course." John handed over a five pound note. "And how's the experiment going?"

"Feigned politeness is excruciating." Sherlock offered John his change and then presented him with his drink. "Here you go, sir. One caffe macchiato, just like you ordered and made specially just for you!"

"Erm, yes. It looks grand, thanks."

"Make sure to return next week, I'll be playing the part of a goth biker complete with tattoo and surly attitude. Wait until you hear the music I chose!" he whispered before stepping back, offering a cheerful wave and, in a loud voice brightly announcing, "Thank you for shopping at _Ratiocination!_ Please come again!"

John contained his shudder with difficulty. He was fairly certain he'd be avoiding returning until Sherlock's little experiment had run its course, he'd no interest in going to an ordinary coffee shop- that's what drew him to iRatiocination/i in the first place. Although... goths wore mascara and black lipstick and the like, didn't they?

Huh.

Sherlock in makeup. That could be interesting.

Disturbing, but interesting.

* * *

One week later...

* * *

**Pervestigation, or The Thorough Investigation Into the Perfect Coffee Shop**

* * *

John couldn't help himself; come Monday he went to _Ratiocination_ to see how it had been transformed for Sherlock's Goth experiment. The music was blasting so loudly he could feel the vibrations through his boots and once he opened the door the volume practically bowled him over.

Sherlock himself was a sight to behold, pale white face made all the more stark by blackened hair, lips, eyeliner and mascara. He also counted seven piercings, including one on the nose.

Although intrigued, the migraine John felt forming wasn't worth venturing inside. Heading home John wondered what Sherlock's next transform would be.


	8. John and robbers

**Parapraxis, or The Unconsciously Expressed Wish Behind the Perfect Coffee**

* * *

In retrospect, it wasn't surprising that _Ratiocination_ had become something of a port in the storm for John. It was the perfect place to get away from the insanity and chaos of university and be reminded of the fact that yes, life did exist outside of the classroom and the lab and that there was the occasional person out there in the world that did not exist solely to try his patience.

The jingle from the bells over the door was practically a balm to him and the sight of Sherlock yelling at some poor sot already started to help him feel less stressed.

"No, I will not resteam you beverage. It was prepared at the optimal temperature, requesting it be resteamed to the temperature of one hundred degrees would only ensure the milk would be scalded beyond all recognition and informs me that you lack both common sense and functioning taste buds."

While John usually enjoyed watching a customer fluster and squirm under Sherlock's lashing tongue today he was distracted by the two young men, late teens perhaps, loitering oddly in the back of the store. Unlike Ratiocination's typical clientele, they were dishevelled and dirty. The taller one showed obvious signs of withdrawal, while his companion kept making furtive moves, reaching for something in his pocket but never pulling it out. To say their actions were making John nervous would have been an understatement.

Sherlock's dressing down of the original customer ended, the woman sweeping out of the store sans both her requested coffee and most of her dignity, just as the two men acted. The addict yelled, "Give us your money!" while his companion began brandishing the large knife he'd unearthed from under his coat.

"Do it! Empty the till!" he yelled as he waved it around. "We haven't all day!"

The reaction they received from Sherlock was not one they'd expected. He began to laugh.

"Open it! Now!" the first one shouted, pulling his own knife out and advancing on Sherlock with it.

John acted without thinking. He slipped his rucksack off his shoulder, hefted it so that he held it by the side instead of the strap and swung it. The bag, with the weight of several textbooks behind it, caught the first of the robbers on the arm right below the elbow with a notable crunch and he fell to the ground, screaming in pain.

Dropping his bag, John pivoted. He bent slightly, planning on taking out the other man in a rugby tackle when Sherlock shouted, "No! You're disrupting my plan! The police-" but as Sherlock spoke, John's attention was pulled away from the last robber and the distraction proved to be his undoing. His adversary feinted right, then darted left, leaving John slightly off his mark when they collided. Instead of hitting him properly, leading with his shoulder and taking the man down, suddenly John found himself with a blinding pain in his side.

Sherlock stepped in then, knocking the robber upside the head with one of the large coffee carafes. "John! No!"

There was a knife sticking out of him. John stared at it. "Missed all the major organs, I'd wager" he said, numbly. "That was lucky. An inch over and," his legs suddenly weak, they began to buckle, but Sherlock was there, guiding him gently down as a policeman came rushing out from the back room, radioing for help.

"An ambulance is on its way." John was lying on the floor of the coffee shop and Sherlock bent over him as he continued, "I am so sorry, my calculations did not include your involvement. Data suggested that they would be in need of new funds tonight and an extrapolation of their pattern indicated my establishment would be their next target and arranged thusly with the police, but I had not considered all the variables, especially their ridiculously slow response time. John? Can you hear me, John?"

John knew he was going into shock. Shallow breathing. Nausea rising. Cold. So cold. Sherlock's hand was warm on his face. "Hrmm," was all he managed in response.

"I would never have endangered you. Never you. You know that, don't you, John? I should have taken your propensity for visiting near the end of day into consideration, not to mention your heroic nature. I was stupid. So very stupid. Your sojourns to my establishment are the highpoint of my day and I would have never... John? John?"

Failing his fight to stay awake, John's eyes slipped shut of their own volition and he knew no more until he regained consciousness the next day in hospital with a steaming latte awaiting him on the small table next to the bed.


End file.
